Page:A Sheaf Gleaned in French Fields.djvu/205

172 Dost thou remember, loveliest,
 * The ties that bound thee fast,

The holiest ties—a mother's,
 * When my thirtieth year had past?

The tumult of that revel
 * Still rings within my heart;

A happy time—Life's autumn,
 * Ah! why should it depart?

Whilst thus I sigh, my Mary,
 * Thine eyes are bending down;

Afraid they seem to tell me
 * That our best of days have flown.

My lips in vain lament them,
 * But though the zest be o'er,

To call them back is pleasure,
 * Those days that are no more.